


Showdown at Valencia

by Portponky



Category: Motorcycling RPF
Genre: Competition, Crack, Explosions, Gen, Leather, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-04
Updated: 2014-09-04
Packaged: 2018-02-16 04:22:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2255712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Portponky/pseuds/Portponky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This fic probably isn't for Marc Marquez fans... hahaha, who am I kidding, he doesn't have any fans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Showdown at Valencia

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Roadstergal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roadstergal/gifts).



It was a cool, brimming November in the country of Valencia. It was finally the final round of the 2014 Moto GP final. The temperature was a comfortable 79 celsius, so everyone had decided to use tyres on their motorbikes. The practice and qualifying rounds had been totally rubbish. Marquez was being a dick to everyone and had clocked in the fastest lap time, of around a minute. The warmup this morning had been a complete waste of time too, as everyone already knew the track and all that happened was Bautista crashed in to Paula Spargaro, damaging her bike. Pedrosa sat in his dressing room, when he heard a knock at the door.

"Hhhelloooo? It's-a me, Rossi!" said the mysterious stranger at the door, likely to be MotoGP all-star Valentino Rossi.

Dani opened the door and was surprised to see Marc Marquez standing there, twisting his pube-like moustache. "Hello shitbag," he douched, "bet you thought I was Rossi. I'm here to tell you you're a total loser and that I'm going to win here at Valencia."

Dani crept inside himself like a frightened and smallish rabbit. He wasn't one for full frontal confrontation. "Hey, it's not a good that you're here. Maybe you should go and we fight on the track, yes?"

"Whatever," said Marquez, punching a nearby child, "it's not like that even matters. I've got a million points after my outrageous winning streak. I can't lose now, it's not even possible."

Marquez took a fat spliff from his pocket and began to toke up. Dani couldn't even believe it, and mustered all the bravery his little heart could provide. "It's a drugs now? Marc you are the worst. Get outta here!" he said bravely.

Marc got all up in Dani's tits and started shoving him. Just like on the track, he escalated every situation without compromise. Dani's deer-like eyes began to tear up. A strong, sturdy and extremely Italian hand pulled Marquez back, and he turned around to see Valentino Rossi leaning over him just like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. "Hey-a, why-a you no go-a pick on some-a one else."

Whilst he might be stupid and a total dick, Marquez valued his life too much to take on Rossi. He shrugged it off and walked out, leaving Rossi and Pedrosa alone. Dani really broke down and let every emotion out. "Hey, he's too good, we can't beat him to win," he sobbed, "it's all for nothing."

"Dani, Dani, my friend-a. He's-a maybe good-a, yes, but you're-a good-a too, and-a his winning streak is-a fueled by a series of bribes-a and sexual favours a mile long-a. He's-a always putting on his-a game face, but you, my carressable friend, you-a just got a face."

"You think so?" asked Dani, drying his weepy, dreamy eyes on an oily rag.

Rossi nodded, and leaned in to within whispering and/or kissing range, and loudly whispered "And-a who says we can't-a beat him?"

* * *

Everyone had mounted their bikes. Marquez lead the pack, followed by the usual crowd. The journalists and mechanics were swarming all over the starting grid as usual. The umbrella women were parading around, their precise umbrella holding skills a wonder to behold. The grandstands were full but not to capacity, as the whole race was set to be another underwhelming Marquez-wins-again snoozefest. There was the usual contingent of yellow-clad Rossi fans, and he waved to them, and they did a Mexican swoon.

Before not too long the roads were cleared leaving just the riders waiting for the lights. It was show time. Pedrosa's tiny heart was racing, and to calm himself down he looked around at the other racers. He saw Lorenzo looking around too, and for a second their eyes met. Lorenzo was probably wondering if it was a coincidence that everyone had turned up wearing leather. A great atmospheric hush laid itself on the entire area and everyone's focus was drawn to the starting lights.

The lights turned on and then they turned off and Lorenzo shot out like a gun bullet and within a second he had a thirty second lead. Damn, that guy is good at starts. Pedrosa followed behind him, and then Cal Crutchlow before Bautista crashed in to him moments later. Coming up in third was Rossi. Marquez was either tenth or eleventh, he wasn't quite sure, but before long he was overtaking and gaining places.

It was vital for Rossi and Pedrosa to hold the top two places in that order. Lorenzo burned through his lead by popping wheelies inappropriately and just generally being too cool for school. By the third lap, Pedrosa's intimate and delicate racing had allowed him to overtake Lorenzo. Like always, Marquez was coming up hard in the rear. Rossi, who was in third place, pulled a walkie talkie from his body and activated it. "Hey-a Pedrosa-a, can-a you-a hear me?"

"Hey, I can hearing you", said Dani, "what's happen?"

"It's-a Marquez, he's-a ramming me up-a the buttocks, you got-a to slow down and let-a me overtake Lorenzo. Do the Immelmann turn."

Dani sterned up and let off the speed pedal a little bit. The gap between him and Jorge lessened, and thus the gap between Jorge and Valentino lessened too and within a lap Valentino was able to use his macho bravado, which he called machado, to overtake. As he passed, he looked at Jorge and noticed he was fiddling with his cell phone and texting someone. He bust out his walkie talkie.

"We-a have problem, Lorenzo is-a on his phone. He's-a not-a going to hold up against-a Marquez."

"Hey, I have my phone, I could send him the text?" Dani responded, "but what to say? Over."

"Errrr-a, tell-a him the winner gets-a a-a chainmail bodice."

During the second turn of the seventh lap, Rossi hear a tremendous gasp from behind him. Lorenzo had got the message. Rossi glanced behind, but only briefly because it's really important to keep an eye on the road. He saw Lorenzo standing fully erect on the bike, both arms pointing to the sky, and he saw the bike doing ollies and flips. Lorenzo had taken the bait and was bringing his A-game to the track. If he truly applied himself, Lorenzo could win a Moto GP race with a child's bicycle, he's just too distracted all the time.

"That's-a bought-a us about-a ten laps. We must-a hold on till the final lap, lap number-a venti or twenty."

Dani nodded, which wasn't transmitted through the walkie talkie. Lorenzo pulled a series of tricks and grinds out of the bag the likes of which the world had never seen. At every corner he was backsliding, and at every lap he was pogoing. Rossi and Pedrosa took the time to swap places and build up a considerable lead, and Marquez just couldn't get past Lorenzo's masterful track control. By the seventeenth lap, Marquez became enraged and bumped Lorenzo's rear tyre. Lorenzo was spent and his motorbike exhausted, and the bump took too much out of him and he let Marquez slip by. In Lorenzo's mind, he saw a chainmail bodice drifting off in to the darkness.

Rossi and then Pedrosa crossed the line and began the eighteenth lap. Pedrosa noticed that Marquez was getting up in his back end like a bad meal. He fumbled for his walkie talkie, to ask Rossi for help, but due to his childlike fingers he dropped it and it went spinning off in to the gravel at the side of the track. He was emotionally crushed, but then he noticed Rossi ahead of him and had a flashback to what Rossi had told him in the shower: "Dani, I know-a you can do it, even if-a you don't." That one cliche was all he needed to fortify his constitution. He turned the acceleration lever harder than ever before.

Marquez kept ramming him, because he's a complete dick and he knew that he'd sucked enough pipe to get away with minor fuckbaggery. Even a gentle bump can send a high powered bike in to a tumble, but Pedrosa's meerkat-like reflexes managed to keep the bike stable. He counted down the corners, resisting Marquez's hard pounding as best he could, until finally it was the final lap of the final.

Rossi turned back and for one sensual moment caught Dani's eye. Rossi gave him the thumbs up of a hero. This was it. Right before the first corner, Rossi launched his bike in to the air a good fifty feet, and it exploded in a giant smokey fireball. He crashed to the ground and rolled and skidded to a stop right in front of the grand stand. Through the smoke and dust, Pedrosa emerged with Marquez right behind him, and they zoomed off round the track.

Rossi pulled himself to his feet. He began what can only be described as the striptease of the gods. The helmet came off and was tossed aside. Next, the leathers were unzipped methodically from neck to groin. He slipped out of them like a yellow panther. The crowd were going completely mental at the sight of this. Rossi fans were stripping too and throwing their hats and clothes on to the track. It was a warm, sexy sight for everyone. Precisely one minute later, two bikes crested the hill behind the final straight.

In front was Marquez. He zoomed across the line in first place to the checkered flag, with Pedrosa behind him in second place. Lorenzo dabbled across the line fiddling with a Nintendo DS, and then Bradl and others behind. The crowd, half distracted by the sexy endeavour, let out a disappointed grumble. The victory lap was the same length as the other laps, and after that everything wound down and the riders returned to parc ferme, where Marquez confronted Pedrosa over the rabble of mechanics, journalists and fans pretending to be journalists.

"I told you, beefcakes," he mouthed off right in Pedrosa's direction, "you can't beat me. None of you can."

A turgid silence filled the room. All eyes were on the two riders. "Hey," said Pedrosa, "that's what you think. But you fell in to our good trap. Rossi's bike debris caused yellow flag. You just overtook me during a yellow flag on the final lap."

"Yellow flag? I didn't see any yellow flag."

Valentino Rossi appeared in a yellow thong. He was dirty, sooty, smoking and still on a fire a little bit, just like Pompeii. "Of-a course not, my-a fans were-a throwing yellow-a clothes all-a over the place."

"I didn't even know it was the last lap," objectified Marquez, "I never got a chance to fall back."

"Hey, what about you learn to count in double digits, Marc?" Pedrosa said, laying a slam dunk of a burn.

"Whatever, it doesn't even matter. I have a one million point lead. One disqualification, do you know what that is to me? It's NOTHING," said Marquez seething from the lips, "whatever, idiots."

An offical from the Moto GP Institute of Moto GP Research arrived to confirm everything in the current conversation. He pushed his glasses on to his balding face and spoke in a wise-sounding English accent. "Hello everyone. My name is Professor Winklesmith. Everything said so far in this conversation has been correct and accurate. Even with this disqualification, Mr. Marquez has more than enough of a points lead to win the championship. We'll factor all of this in to our final decision pending the results of a mandatory drugs test."

"Drugs test?" said Marquez, beginning to panic, "what drugs test? What do you mean?"

"Oh, it's right here in the rules," said Professor Winklesmith, "every single race disqualification triggers a mandatory drugs test. Failure of the drugs test or failure to submit a sample in time results in full season disqualification and shaming from the Moto GP Institute of Moto GP Research. It's in the rules under 2nd Motorbikes, Chapter 11, Verse 10."

"I... you..." said Marquez, too angry and upset to speak, before running out of the room in a flood of tears and flattened dreams.

"We-a knew he never-a read-a that-a far in to-a the rules-a," said Rossi, "because-a he can only-a count to nine."

Rossi and Pedrosa high fived. It was a glorious moment.

"I want to thank both of you gentlemen," said Professor Winklesmith, "you've saved Moto GP from becoming a boring shitfest. Mr. Pedrosa, Mr. Lorenzo, Mr. Bradl, you're needed up on the podium where you will be presented with commemorative cakes as we have run out of trophies. Dr. Rossi, I'm sorry but despite your brave actions, you DNF the race. But your actions will live on in the hearts of Moto GP fans and researchers for years to come."

"It's-a okay, I'll-a be back-a on the podium before you-a know it," said Rossi, "machado."

Everyone cheered and hugged, and Bautista ran in to Professor Winklesmith at high speed.


End file.
